this compost

rehearsal 1a.mp3

I have had a bad case of "I hate Melbourne" the past week. Lots of reasons. It was a nice feeling, when i first arrived after being away for so long. Everyone was so welcoming and i was the center of attention and i like that stuff. But then the novelty wears off and the honeymoon is over baby and its never gonna be that way... and it kind of never was. Really. So now the task of figuring out who and what i'm gonna start becoming commences. Like it ever stopped!

But i am bored. There needs to be more music, or something. More poetry. More noise! Whatever it is - more. Boredom gives way to awareness of finitude and fear and anxiety and we all know we're only dancing in the music - that we are the music... as long as the music lasts.

But thats not all. Last weekend i went to an indy pop festival - "Winter tones". There was a lot of nice music playing - but i gotta say that the "kids" who dag about at these festivals are not exactly engaged on all cylinders. The boys and girls seem to be erring about in clothes that don't fit and all fogged up and confused - all you'd have to do is say boo! and their poor posture would paroxysm and the lunchbox would hit the floor - such thankless, joyless food would scatter here and there, and then lunch would be over. Like the little fantasies that seem to stand in for the experience - has the age of virtual engagement, stimulation and transcendence brought about a de-evolution of spirit? These bodies seem so frail - so lost and... disembodied. The music... some of it was nice. But it was TOO "nice". Music serves a myriad of purposes to different ears, but it should express and emotion, create emotion, allow the imagination to transcend, go beyond, to soar with the eagles. Music should push us to the extremities of feeling, break us down, and be all that holds us together. As long as the music lasts. Perhaps apathy is hip these days - the emos, in tandem with the idiots, are winning. The scene is about being seen. Everyone wearing skinny jeans and sweaters and scarves and shit - big rim glasses all the better for not seeing you with. Occasional moments of recognition which would spark social ignition (in another world) seemed only to startle, make role and scatter, like frozen peas from the plate.

Sorry.

I don't wanna come over to play with lego and read Grug and listen to limp wristed glitch pop. Any candidates for driving out to the desert, tearing open the sky with a cardboard key and entwining ourselves in fleshy fluid ecstasy on the bonnet of the kingswood?

I thought not.

Then there was some accupuncture and i was depressed most of the week. Been dreaming like a seer suspended between worlds, my ear arched just right to let the whispering owl, the river and sunset breathe their scallop'd secrets. But now i'm thinking about going back to uni and getting qualified and then getting the hell out of Melbourne again and seeing some more of this planet but this time with cash on my ipod and money in my pocket.

The above recording! Holy shit. It is another sample from the Chotto Matte rehearsal last week. My favourite bits are when we don't know what we're doing and it sort of sounds like we're trying to stare each other down, taunting each other... i dare you to make a sound. It won't break you down and tear you to pieces like maybe oneday we will... but it is honest and in its moment.

You and I,

Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping,
Play'd the part that still looks back on the actor or actress,
The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like,
Or as small as we like, or both great and small.

You furnish your parts toward eternity,
Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.